Thursday, 3 November 2011

Time to Die: Prologue

I take the steps two at a time, flying up the decayed staircase into the darkness above. Dirty vibrant colours seep in through the smudged windows of the building. A slamming thud resounds down the stairwell, a door flung shut. Neon flashing across my retinas, I draw my Strayer Voight Deadshot .45 from its holster within my coat, preparing to corner my prey.

I reach the top of the stairs, a solid metal door blocking my path.

End of the line.

I reach for the door handle, slowing my breath, readying myself to burst through. There's probably a cross-hair aimed at the other side of the door. Might get hit, might not. Best to be prepared for the worst, ready to act after that red-hot slug of lead has ripped into my body.

My breath rattles around my chest like a solitary data-chip in a beggar's tin. I look down, expecting to see blood spreading out from an entry wound – but there's something else...

The hilt of a dagger protrudes from my torso. I've seen this object before, touched it, held it.

Suddenly, the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle falls into place.

I've been played for a fool.

A few days earlier...

I toss the knife from hand to hand, the weight of it like the familiar hand shake of an old friend.

“Used one of these during the Middle East Nuclear Crisis – mine had a few more notches than this.” I place the weapon back on its ornamental stand.

“Dr Obadiah helped create the phase-technology inside that weapon,” the young woman utters sheepishly. Her white lab-coat is slightly oversized, her blonde hair bunched tightly against her scalp, her shoes clunky and functional. Quite unremarkable.

“That was some breakthrough,” I comment. “Guys used to tell stories of cutting into the armour of tanks with their blades. The gene-lock on mine played up a lot – wouldn't activate because it didn't recognise me. Just ended up using it like a normal knife.”

The girl doesn't reply.

I turn, casting my eyes over the small laboratory. Coils of wire and components of varying size and shape litter the surfaces, intricate tools scattered amongst the mayhem. The chaos of a genius.

“Will he be here soon?” I ask, breaking the silence.

As if in answer to my question, the door creaks open behind me, a small middle-aged man entering the room. His frizzy grey hair frustrates me – unkempt hair makes my skin crawl.

“The device was stolen at some point in the last twenty-four hours,” the short scientist states with no introduction as he bustles about the lab. “No security footage, no obvious signs of a break-in.”

“Can you elaborate on the function of the device?” I ask, repressing the revulsion and annoyance I instantly feel towards this man, unable to draw my eyes away from the flaky skin on his scalp.

“No.”

“I'm sorry but I really think – ”

“It is a black cuboid box,” the scientist interrupts, “each side measuring about two feet across, with a black rubberised plate on top and an instrument panel on one side.”

I smile broadly at the man, then turn and head out of the door. I haven't got time for this kind of nonsense.

- x -

She catches up with me as I walk out into the grimy alleyway.

“Please, I'm sorry – he's under so much stress.”

I turn, looking at the young woman's earnest face. She could be quite pretty with a little effort.

“Why do you care so much?” I ask. “What's in it for you?”

“He's my doctorate advisor. I need him to sign off on my training, and if he has a meltdown before I get that signature...”

“I see.”

“I'll make sure you get half of the payment up front,” she pleads. “And I'll get you two thousand extra.”

“That's a lot of data,” I say. And I need it. Three month's rent to pay and there's always bullets, booze and food to buy.